Hot Water
by Laura Mayfair
Summary: Sharon, Andy, Provenza, and Rusty are invited to her sister's for dinner. Implied Provenza and OTC. Peripheral Andy/ Sharon. Humor, Family. Rated K.


**Some drivel that I had sitting on my hard drive. This is a stand alone story but I did re-use the slightly AU that I had going in my trilogy arc ("As Time Goes By," "What the Heart Wants," "Toward a Secret Sky." Rated: K**

**Hot Water**

The mellow strains of a cello concerto greeted Provenza as he approached Samantha's door. It was a bright, sunny April afternoon and he found himself whistling Dean Martin's catchy _That's Amore! _as he approached the front steps. He gave the door a rhythmic rap in time with his jaunty whistling and peered into the screen. "Sam?"

Her voice rippled above the arching cascades of the cello. "In the kitchen," she called.

Sam was intently scrutinizing five dish towels that were arranged neatly in a line on the countertop. Each one covered something that hid underneath. Steam floated above from a large pot on the stove. Samantha was definitely overdressed for the kitchen in a coral colored halter dress and high heeled sandals. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head with a few wisps hanging around her face. Her expression, when she turned enough for Provenza to catch her profile, was full of uncharacteristic anguish.

"I can't do it," she wailed miserably, tossing the lid of the pot against the counter with a frenzied clatter.

Provenza slipped an arm around Samantha's waist and enjoyed the way she leaned toward him. She gave him a lukewarm, half-hearted peck on the cheek, her eyes still focused on the row of dish towels. Sam never did anything halfway and he was used to far more exuberant greetings from his girlfriend than this one.

"What seems to be the trouble, ma'am?" teased Provenza lightly in his best cop voice, hoping to cajole her out of her unhappy mood. Sam was rarely upset - but like all of her moods, a foul one had her trademark intensity.

"I'm supposed to cook dinner," sniffled Sam. Provenza nodded, even though he knew this. Samantha had offered to make dinner for him, Rusty, Andy, and Sharon. She did this often on Friday afternoons, knowing that Sharon and Andy liked to spend time with Rusty when he came home from college for the weekend and it was a nice way for all of them to get together. Sam's dinners were a casual yet elaborate affair, casual because the atmosphere was always warm and friendly – If a bit quirky – like his pretty girlfriend, and elaborate because Samantha seemed incapable of doing anything that lacked her signature flair. If she cooked Mexican for them, there were piñatas and sombreros while the stereo blared Latin music. The night she made Indian food, she insisted they paint henna tattoos on one another's arms (from henna that she had made the night before). Of course, after the festivities, and once they were alone, she'd surprised Provenza with a copy of the _Kama Sutra_; it had been a memorable evening and he had decided, after all, that he liked Indian food in spite of all his prior melodramatic complaining to the contrary.

"Are you listening to me, Louie?" Two green eyes narrowed as she looked at him.

"Of course," Provenza assured her, although he hadn't caught the last couple of things that she had just said. "You're a fabulous cook and everything you make is always delicious." Maybe the part about him having heard her wasn't true – but his faith in her abilities certainly was.

With a cookbook in one hand, Samantha began reading, "Plunge lobsters headfirst into an 8-quart pot of boiling salted water." With that, she removed one of the dish towels with her free hand revealing a live lobster with rubber bands around its claws.

"You're making lobster," observed Provenza.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Samantha promptly whacked him on the arm with the cookbook. "Traditional New England lobster, boiled – with sherry butter." I _knew_ you weren't listening," she accused.

"I'm sorry, Sam," apologized Provenza.

But this time it was Samantha who wasn't listening. Instead, she whipped off the dish towels one by one and Provenza found himself staring into five pairs of beady black eyes.

"I named them. Rusty, Andy, Sharon, Samantha, and Louie." She pointed enthusiastically at each lobster in turn with her beautifully manicured nails. "And then I tried to put Louie in the pot – "

"You were going to start with _Louie_?" Provenza looked almost hurt.

"That's not the point!" Samantha exclaimed. "The point is that I couldn't do it. Maybe we should just get take-out from that little gourmet deli around the corner….then we could go to the beach and we could set them free!"

Provenza looked at the lobsters doubtfully. "Honey, these look like Maine lobsters; I don't think they'll survive in the Pacific."

"Oh, I'm a horrible person!" Samantha's eyes brimmed with tears. "They'll never survive a trip back to the east coast. I've displaced them from their friends and families and I can't even give them an honorable death!"

Provenza wrapped his arms around Samantha. "You take fifteen minutes. I'll –" Provenza paused, his expression sober as he glanced over at the lobsters. "I'll just take care of things in here."

"You mean you're going to - "

"Under the circumstance - " Provenza glanced at the clock. "Sharon and Andy and Rusty will be here any minute. You know that your sister is punctual to a fault."

"I don't think I can finish the recipe even if you b-b-oil them," murmured Sam unhappily.

Provenza tugged Samantha out of the kitchen toward the living room and got her situated on the sofa with a glass of iced water. "I'll take care of dinner," he promised, tucking a pillow behind her. "You entertain the Flynns." He was just putting a coaster under the glass when he heard Flynn's laughter followed by the unmistakable click of Sharon's heels against the walkway. They were opening the screen door before Provenza had time to dash into the kitchen.

Samantha bounced up, lobsters forgotten, and threw her arms around each of her guests in turn. "I told you that you'd look good in lavender," she told her twin enthusiastically when she observed the cream colored skirt and lavender sweater that she'd given Sharon for her birthday.

"You have great taste, Sam," smiled Sharon. She handed her sister a bottle of sparkling apple cider and a box of turtle brownies. "You'll be happy to know that I didn't bake the brownies. Rusty did."

"Thanks, Rusty," grinned Samantha. "Later on I want to hear all about your adventures in college. And not the academics. The good stuff." She put an arm around her sister's waist and shooed the men away. "It's time for me to monopolize Sharon for a bit, boys. The game's on in the den if that interests you," added Samantha, eyes sparkling.

Provenza gave a sigh of forlorn regret while he exchanged a look of boyish triumph with Flynn and Rusty.

"I guess," offered Andy, taking the cue, "if you ladies don't want our company." He feigned a pained expression; it wasn't often that the women sanctioned a game.

"You're not fooling anybody," Sharon told her husband as she rubbed his arm. "Go," she laughed, giving him an affectionate pat. "Enjoy yourselves."

"Louie, could you take these into the kitchen for me?" Sam asked, handing him the bottle of sparkling cider and the brownies.

"Of course. And I'll finish dinner," he added, suddenly remembering the lobsters.

"Provenza, if you need help in the kitchen….," offered Sharon.

"Oh, no honey, he's got it covered," Sam promised with a grateful smile to Provenza. Samantha patted the space next to her. "I want to show you my pictures from Bora Bora," she told Sharon eagerly while the men made their way toward the den.

"So what's this about you cooking dinner?" Flynn asked Provenza with an amused smile as they neared the kitchen. Flynn waved Rusty on ahead assuring him that they'd join him shortly.

"You're from Jersey," Provenza mumbled quietly as he appraised his former partner. "Ever make lobster?"

Flynn rolled his eyes. "It's more of a New England thing. No, I've never made lobster. Is that what's on the menu?"

Provenza put the bottle of cider in the fridge and placed the container of brownies on the counter while Flynn observed the lobsters waiting to take their one final swim in the pot of doom.

"You like to cook," Provenza told Flynn warmly. Maybe you could – "

"Are you telling me that you're squeamish about boiling some lobster?" Flynn asked with a derisive chuckle.

"Not squeamish. Sam couldn't do it," Provenza pointed out stubbornly. He motioned his head in their direction. "Look at them." He pointed to the one in the middle. "This one's named Flynn."

"You named them?"

"Sam did."

"Heh, probably not wise to name prospective dinner."

The pair stared at the lobsters. Flynn turned up the heat on the stove. "Should be a rolling boil." They both peered into the pot, glanced at one another, and then looked over at the lobsters again.

"I think Flynn knows," whispered Provenza. "He's flexing his tentacles."

"I think they're called antennae," corrected Flynn.

"I don't think the lobsters care about semantics, especially when they're about to take a one way trip to the pearly gates." He paused. "How long do we boil them for?" Provenza added.

Flynn shrugged. "I have no idea. I'll ask Sam."

Provenza grabbed his arm. "Don't do that. I don't want to seem helpless. We're men. We can handle this. Sam had a cookbook around here somewhere." They looked hurriedly around the kitchen but neither of them could find it.

"What does that woman do with things?" complained Provenza.

Flynn looked at the water in the pot. "Not boiled yet."

"I'll look it up on my phone," Provenza said with an air of self-satisfaction for coming up with a solution as he dug his phone out of his pocket. But a cheer from Rusty had the two men rushing into the den to check the score of the game, dinner temporarily forgotten.

They were only gone a few minutes but when they returned to the kitchen, Sharon was standing over the pot with the last lobster in hand, just easing it into the pot of boiling water.

"The lobsters really shouldn't be left on the counter too long," she explained casually. Flynn noticed that his wife had managed to get all five lobsters into the pot. She turned and placed the lid over the top of the pot, sealing the lobsters' fate without a shred of remorse, before leaning over to set the digital timer over the stove for fifteen minutes. She did all of this with focused, calculated precision.

"I hope you don't mind that I jumped in," she said turning to face them, wondering why Provenza and Andy were eying her incredulously.

"No, not at all," Provenza mumbled. "Of course, we had everything under control."

Sharon smiled as she opened up the fridge and grabbed a couple of bottles of water. "Need anything else before I head back to Sam?" she asked.

"No. Definitely not," said Provenza. Flynn shook his head. "We've got it covered. We're uh…shellfish experts."

"Mmmm," Sharon hummed.

They watched her walk out of the kitchen.

Provenza turned to Flynn once Sharon had left. "Today, lobsters. Tomorrow, the world. Ever make you nervous that she carries a gun?"


End file.
